


come kiss me black and blue

by oceans_blue8



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Mostly Fluff, One Shot, alternate ending-season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23615383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceans_blue8/pseuds/oceans_blue8
Summary: Eve’s eyes are clear and bright, without even a glimmer of fear. The way she looks at Villanelle makes her feel like she’s a person again. Not a psychopath or a killer, not even someone impressive. Just an ordinary woman. Nice life, cool flat, fun job. And, lying so close in her bed, someone, at last, to do the normal stuff with her.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 2
Kudos: 58





	come kiss me black and blue

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of season three premiering today, I thought I'd take a stab (pun intended) at writing these two. This is half "what if" scenario and half character study; I love the original ending, but I also desperately wanted them to kiss at the end of season one, so I found a way to have it both ways!  
> Title from the song "Claudia" by Finneas.  
> I'm thinking of writing a longer work with these two, so let me know what you think in the comments!

“Are you gonna kill me?” Eve asks.

They’re looking each other in the eyes. She’s close—so close that Villanelle’s heart flutters a little in her chest, right under her hands clutching the smooth metal of the gun. After all this time—after shoot-outs and narrow escapes and long nights spent dreaming of this moment—here they are at last. Villanelle is not a romantic, and yet she can’t help but feel they were destined to meet like this.

She shakes her head.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Villanelle says, and she’s surprised to find she means it. Lying here beside Eve, in the wreckage of her once-pristine apartment, the emptiness inside her isn’t begging for fresh blood anymore.

It’s not like this with any other person; at least, it hasn’t been for a long, long time. Not since Russia, not since she’d looked into the warm brown eyes of another woman with magnificent wavy hair and wanted her more than anything in the world. But that had been an almost-manic passion, full of anger and a painful desire twisting deep in her stomach that could never be satisfied. It had been like that with Eve at first, too.

But when she looks at Eve now, something deep inside her settles, like a key turning in a lock. It just confirms what she has known all along: they’re complementary, two halves of something bigger than the two of them can comprehend. She can’t kill Eve, because killing Eve would be like killing a piece of herself.

Now, the gap between them almost closed, she feels safe. She wants Eve to feel safe, too; there is still something in her that craves the electrifying fear in Eve’s eyes, but not now. Slowly, gently, Villanelle drops the gun to the floor on the side of her bed. For a moment, she just lays there, eyes wandering idly across the ceiling. She wants—well, she doesn’t know what she wants.

Turning sideways, she settles her head on her arm and just looks at the woman lying next to her, letting herself take in all the details she’s never been able to see before. Their constant running, while exhilarating, hasn’t given Villanelle nearly enough time to appreciate the bow shape of Eve’s lips, the graceful arch of her eyebrows, the roundness of her jawline. There is nothing sharp about Eve; nothing on the outside, at least, and that is what Villanelle likes best about her.

Eve’s hair is wild, a sprawling halo around her head on the pillow. It gives Villanelle a thrill to see it like that, to realize the power of those three words she’d said before she’d even known what Eve would become to her: _wear it down_. It’s the same thrill she’d felt seeing Eve in the dress she’d picked out. Her hair had been down then, too, curled about her shoulders, and Villanelle had felt a possessive sort of tenderness when she’d leaned in and smelled the perfume on her neck. Even there, blade pressed to Eve’s sternum, she’d known she wouldn’t kill her that night.

The words slip out almost of their own accord. “Would you stay for a bit?”

Eve is still for a moment. Then she shifts to face Villanelle. The eye contact isn’t what Villanelle expects; it’s almost _gentle_ , so at contrast to the tense energy that usually crackles between them.

“Sure,” Eve says, a hint of a smile on her lips.

They’re so close now. Eve’s eyes are clear and bright, without even a glimmer of fear. The way she looks at Villanelle makes her feel like she’s a _person_ again. Not a psychopath or a killer, not even someone impressive. Just an ordinary woman. Nice life, cool flat, fun job. And, lying so close in her bed, someone, at last, to do the normal stuff with her.

She isn’t used to this. Even Konstantin is afraid of her; that’s how she likes it, most of the time. Villanelle delights in seeing the little flicker of uncertainty cross his face, knowing it means she has the upper hand. She is always in control. It’s the same with the many men and women she takes to bed. She’s like a black widow, drawing them into her web, and it gives her pleasure to notice the instant when they finally realize they’ve been ensnared. It’s in the subtleties: the widening of their eyes, the hitching of their breath as they surrender control. In those intimate moments, she sees them sense it on some subconscious level—Villanelle isn’t normal. She isn’t _like_ them.

But Eve is like her. And so, for the first time in a long time, Villanelle feels _seen_.

She can’t help herself. Villanelle reaches out one hand and brushes it down the side of Eve’s face, fingers sweeping through the curly hair she so adores. She can see Eve’s lips part as her thumb strokes over her cheek; Eve’s face grows uncertain, her words hesitant.

“I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“It’s okay,” Villanelle says. “I know what I’m doing.”

And then she’s leaning over, and Eve isn’t pulling away—she has to say, she’s a little surprised—and their lips meet at last. Villanelle’s split lip makes her cringe at first, but she pushes it out of her mind. She’s suffered worse pain, and kissing Eve for the first time is very, very worth it.

Eve is gentle, clearly unsure of herself, and the thought almost makes Villanelle laugh. What difference is there between kissing women and men, really? But she can feel Eve holding back, so she reins herself in as well, careful not to be too aggressive. Her hand comes up to cup Eve’s cheek, fingers winding their way through her hair to pull her in closer. She kisses Eve until they’re both breathless, and then she pulls back just slightly, eyes fluttering open as she fixes Eve with a level stare.

Villanelle’s gaze traces over her features; Eve looks like a fish out of water, eyes gone wide in an endearing show of nerves. She’s opening her mouth as if to speak, but it takes a moment before the words come out.

“I-I don’t know what—” Eve stammers, and Villanelle shushes her by placing a finger over her lips.

“Shhh,” she whispers, a little smirk on her lips that says she knows exactly the affect she’s having. “Did you like that?”

It’s not the first time she’s left Eve speechless, but this time certainly feels like the greatest accomplishment. Villanelle chuckles, low and almost predatory. She knows the answer without Eve having to say a word; best of all, Eve knows she knows it, too.

“It doesn’t matter,” Villanelle says lightly, springing up from her spot on the bed. There is so much more she wants to do with Eve—to do _to_ her—but she senses that this, for now, is enough. It’s a delicate dance between them; one step too far forward could mean three back in the opposite direction. Even the slightest wrong movement could send Eve running. And yet it’s _Villanelle_ they call high-strung—a totally unfair assessment.

Eve rolls onto her back, closing her eyes. She’s breathing hard; whether it’s from fear or excitement, Villanelle is unsure. Villanelle watches for a moment, just taking her in. Every one of her senses feels heightened; it’s hard for her to believe that this is really happening. The colors of the room become bolder, somehow, and the air seems perfumed. She feels almost the way she does right after she’s dispatched yet another of her targets—that same sense of pride, the lifting of that grey cloud of boredom that darkens most of her days, if only for a moment.

Villanelle waits until Eve’s breathing has slowed before settling herself back onto the bed next to her. She reaches for Eve’s hand—slowly, the way she might approach a frightened animal. Well, the way she imagines she would if she were in the habit of approaching animals. She’s never understood the human fascination with pets. They can’t talk back, not in any intelligent way, so what’s the point? It’s merely a matter of time before she tires of them.

Eve’s hand is warm against her own; her fingers thread themselves through Villanelle’s more out of instinct than anything else.

“What am I doing here?” Her tone is low, almost inaudible.

“I hope that is a rhetorical question, Eve.”

“No, I mean…” Eve drops her hand to roll back onto her side, eyes anxiously seeking out Villanelle’s. “I should be back in London. With Carolyn and Kenny and Niko—oh god, _Niko_ —”

“Do not worry about Niko.” Too late, Villanelle realizes the unintended implication of those words.

“What the _fuck_ does that mean?”

“Nothing!” she says quickly, reaching out for Eve once more. “I only meant—he’s not here. Forget him. You are here, with me.”

Eve gives her a long stare; her cheek is warm beneath Villanelle’s palm, but something in her eyes has gone dark. Villanelle can feel the change in the air between them, feel her about to slip away. She knows this moment can’t last forever, not even with the magnetic pull that always seems to bring them back together, but she isn’t ready for Eve to leave yet.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” she asks, so suddenly that Eve flinches.

“What?”

“Watch a movie with me.” Villanelle rephrases it as half-command, half-invitation, giving Eve one of her trademark little smiles to go along with. “Then… go back to London, if you must. But stay for a movie.”

“You weren’t kidding, were you?” Eve asks. “When you said you wanted someone to watch movies with.”

“What can I say?” She purses her lips, a teasing lilt to her tone. “I am a woman of many interests.” She pauses. “Is that a yes, then?”

“Just one movie,” Eve says, “then I’m leaving.”

Villanelle is quick to agree. “Just one movie.”

But there’s a smirk on her lips. A lot can happen during one movie, after all.

They sit together on her bed, her laptop perched between them like a peace offering. Not too close, but Villanelle is hyper-aware of every small touch. A twinge of electricity shoots through her every time their shoulders brush; she finds herself ignoring the movie in favor of watching Eve out of the corner of her eye. Her reactions are more interesting than what’s onscreen anyway.

It’s a saccharine rom-com—Villanelle makes sure of that. Not her usual preference; she favors action films, the kind filled with car chases and the sort of violence that might make an ordinary person cringe and look away from the screen. Of course, she is not an ordinary person. She suspects Eve is not, either. After everything they’ve been through, she figures that Eve would face the violence with eyes wide open, maybe even with an air of fascination.

But this moment is for light things—romantic comedies and tender kisses. The blood, the sex—those can come later. She’s not sure she has a word for the way she feels about Eve, but what she knows is this: even though Villanelle is not accustomed to taking it slow, Eve is the kind of woman worth waiting for.

When the movie ends, they sit in silence for a moment before Eve speaks.

“I should go.”

Villanelle doesn’t say anything at first. She won’t beg her to stay; it’s simply not in her nature. Instead, she reaches over to brush a stray curl away from Eve’s face, hand lingering there to gently cup her jaw.

“What do you want?” she murmurs, echoing the question Eve had asked her earlier. There are a million words she’d like to hear in response, but she doesn’t get the chance, because suddenly there’s a searing pain in her stomach and when she looks down the knife is buried up to its hilt and there’s blood and she looks at Eve and her eyes are cold, so cold, so empty, and she’s not surprised, and it _hurts_ , it hurts, it hurts—

*

Villanelle wakes, thrashing, in a hospital bed. It all comes back to her: Eve’s confession, the feeling of having her so close, the shocking agony of the knife. _You can’t_ , she’d said. And Eve had proven her wrong in the most spectacular way.

Her mind is spinning even as she talks to the doctor, finds out how long she’s been there and what drugs they’ve given her. It doesn’t matter; she doesn’t intend to stay, but she does intend to survive. It’s what she always does.

She makes a plan. Underneath it all, though, her mind keeps returning to Eve—the weight of her lying on Villanelle’s bed, the almost-fond look in her eyes right before she’d buried that knife deep in Villanelle’s stomach. And the way she’d looked after: not proud of herself, not steely or confident or satisfied. Just… scared. Maybe regretful, even, hands soaked in the crimson of Villanelle’s blood.

Eve had played her for a fool. Part of her feels betrayed, but there’s some other part that is equally impressed. Villanelle knows now that there’s something dangerous inside Eve, too; it should probably scare her, but she’s never been easily frightened. Instead, she feels a strange mix of pride and satisfaction even as she lets the anger course through her.

_I really liked you_.

She still does. Wouldn’t it be hypocritical to be angry at Eve for trying to kill her after all the killing she’s done herself? She supposes it’s only fair after what she’d done to Eve’s partner, though she still doesn’t feel any regret for having done it. Like she’d told Eve—he would have only held her back.

Villanelle hadn’t really thought Eve capable of killing; well, she won’t lie, she’d thought about it in the abstract. But she hadn’t thought she’d do it there, in that intimate moment, looking her straight in the eyes. It’s a level of ruthlessness worthy of Villanelle herself, and that’s what makes it infuriating and alluring in equal measures.

They belong to each other now. There’s no escaping it, not anymore; Eve has left her literal mark on Villanelle forever. Despite the anger behind the action, Villanelle can’t help but feel there’s a sort of twisted tenderness to it. After all, hate is not the opposite of love—just a perversion of the same passion. Eve _cares_ about her, at least in some way.

And people do crazy things in the name of love.

Vaguely, she wonders where they’ll go from here; it’s not in Villanelle’s nature to be forgiving. More than anyone else, Eve has the power to ruin her. She should go to London, finish the job, neutralize the threat once and for all. But deep down, she knows she won’t.

Oh, yes, she’ll go to London. She’ll watch Eve from street corners, across hotel lobbies, through clouded windows. Maybe Eve thinks she is dead; so much the better. Villanelle will do her watching in peace, waiting until the moment is right to reveal herself again.

Or maybe Eve will not want anything to do with her. The insidious little insecurity wriggles its way into her mind as she goes over Eve’s words again and again. Her eyes had been fond; her words had seemed sincere. But that had been before the knife.

Maybe things have irrevocably changed between them; maybe not. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Villanelle knows she’ll be back. With Eve, it’s only a matter of time.

And if not… well, Villanelle does know where she lives, after all.


End file.
